


Shoo-Fly Pie

by kerrschtein, kroganfucker



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, M/M, mostly so far, pls bear with us. we are trying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:52:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerrschtein/pseuds/kerrschtein, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kroganfucker/pseuds/kroganfucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hello and welcome to caroline's bullshit self indulgent diner au where nobody is dead and everybody is happy</p>
<p>garrett owns a diner and works with the kirkwall crew. gay things happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ok so please keep in mind that this is my first serious fic and first dragon age fic, and i'd love feedback!
> 
> much love to noeru (kroganfucker) who is a wonderful wonderful editor and stayed with me through this entire process.
> 
> you can find me @mafereth on tumblr, and noeru @ridetheironbull

“Well, shit.”

It is, of course, raining. Again. Lothering defies expectations, being freezing cold most of the year but with no snow to speak of. It makes the winters completely unbearable. Despite that, I suppose I do have soft spot for it in my heart. The place can be hellish, but it’s home. 

“A damn shitty one,” I mutter, glaring at the sky angrily. “Why the hell do I walk to work every day? Oh right, I remember - I have no car and no money. Fuckin’ great.”

At least Lothering’s a small town. Thank the Maker for that. 

The name’s Hawke. Well, it’s Garrett Hawke, actually, but most people just call me Hawke. (It’s much better than ‘Garebear’, in any case.) I’m 27, and I own a diner. You know, one of those old-timey ones, something that wouldn’t look out of place in the 50’s. It’s not the most profitable - Lothering isn’t what you’d call a tourist hotspot, but hey, I get to work with my best friends and my sister every day, and that’s good enough for me. 

But still, it’s fucking cold. 

That’s… not as good. I might be built like a bear, but I sure as hell don’t have the cold tolerance of one. And the heater in my apartment is broken, so on top of all this shit so I have to keep a fire going constantly in the fireplace. I’m slightly afraid the house will burn down. (Only slightly, though, I swear.) How am I even allowed to live alone? 

At least Malcolm’s has heating. “Malcolm’s” is the name of the diner, by the way. It’s named after my dad. He was founder and head cook. The man worked magic, both with the customers (they all loved him) and the food. But when he passed away I took over to keep it in the family. Hawkes are good at food. All of us are. Well, besides Carver, but he’s special.

Honestly, though, walking into Malcolm’s feels like walking through the gates of Heaven. Bethy and Anders have already started making the employees’ breakfast, and the smell completely fills the diner. (Which might mean we need better ventilation, but whatever. I’ll deal with that later.)

Now, the diner may be family-style or traditional or whatever you want to call it, but our employees are… unique, to say the least.

You’ve got Isabela, on probation for Maker knows what. It’s not something that I want to know about, in any case. Anders, our head cook, is a med school dropout, and Merrill, one of our waitresses, moved here with next to nothing to get away from family. Bethany’s also a college dropout. She mans the kitchen with Anders. And then there’s Varric. Ah, Varric. He doesn’t technically work here, but he helps us with our taxes and other financial stuff because I absolutely suck at math. (I just can’t stay focused on one thing for long. It’s really a wonder the diner is still open.) Other than that, I’m not really sure what Varric does. No one is. 

“Garrett Hawke, are you seriously wearing two scarves? Oh, sweetheart. That’s truly horrendous.”

Well, there’s Isabela.

“Izzy, you know how I feel about the cold,” I said in a strong, manly way, definitely not whining at all. Luckily, she’s wiping off some tables in the back so she can’t see how many layers I’m actually wearing. (5. I think.) “I’m not built for the cold. In fact, I absolutely hate it. You don’t understand! You’re never cold.”

“Does that mean I’m hot, Hawkey?” She shoots me a mischievous grin. I roll my eyes. 

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response today, Isabela. It got old the last seventeen times you said it.” Coat hung up, check. 

“You know me, kitten. I just can’t help myself!” Finishing the table with a flourish, she moves back to the bar. “Bethy and Anders have started breakfast, Merrill’s taking inventory.” She pops her head out from behind the bar. “And Anders wanted to talk to you. He sounded pissed.” 

Great. Just how I wanted to start my day. 

Ok, maybe that was a bit harsh. I love everyone here, I really do. It’s just that, well, Anders gets a bit too worked up over the small things. Love him, but he needs to chill. A lot. 

Anders notices my presence instantly. He turns on his heel to grab me by the shoulders and yells like a man possessed, “We’re out of basil! Maker’s ass, this is a disaster!”

“Anders, what the fuck-” 

“I asked you last week, Hawke! Basil is the single most important spice we need, and we’re out!”

I’m not in charge of inventory. I’m in charge of people. Inventory? That’s Varric’s thing.

“Why didn’t you ask Varric? I’m no good with these things and you know it.”

This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Anders gives a long-suffering sigh and rubs his temples, exasperation and more than a hint of irritation creeping into his voice.

“You are aware that Varric doesn’t actually work here, right, Hawke? He just handles our money and does our inventory because none of us are functional adults. Which is pathetic, really.”

“Speak for yourself. I could definitely do all of those things, Anders.” I puff out my chest and stand a bit straighter, looking every inch the strong, dashing man.

He just rolls his eyes at me, turning away, but I could see the hint of a smile on his lips. Damn right. No one can stay mad at me for long. 

“Hey, don’t forget who owns this restaurant.”

“Oh, please. We all know that Varric runs this place from the shadows like a capitalist puppetmaster.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

He opens his mouth (probably to start some ridiculous diatribe against society), but Bethany’s snickering in the background gives me a way out.

“Bethy! My favourite sister!” Ignoring Anders’ ‘She’s your only sister, Hawke’, I throw my arms around her and rest my chin on her head. She swats me with a spatula. “ETA on breakfast?”

Employee breakfasts are a tradition at Malcolm’s. Lothering isn’t exactly an “up and at ‘em” kind of town. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone willingly out and about before 10. So we all eat together like family. A big, dysfunctional family, but a family nonetheless. Like I said, I’ve got it pretty good. 

“10 minutes, give or take. If Anders would stop complaining and actually focus on the food, it’d go a lot faster.” She shoots a lopsided grin at Anders, obviously joking. He pretends to be offended. “We’ll be done soon, big brother. Go wait at the table or something. And you might want to check on Isabela.”

That’s not a bad idea. Knowing Isabela, she’s probably trying to get into the bar, even though it’s not even nine yet. She tends it at night, so she feels a bit entitled to a few drinks during the day, or, in this case, the morning. She’s the embodiment of the phrase “It’s five o’clock somewhere!”

I’m mostly OK with it. She can mix a damn good drink - it’s part of why we hired her. Since we’re pretty much the only restaurant in the entire county, we decided to cover all our bases and add a bar. We get good business out of it, though we’d probably get a bit more if Bela stopped drinking the good stuff before five. But I figure if we ever lose too much profit she’d cut back. A man can dream.

I drop a kiss on Bethy’s forehead and walk out to the dining area only to be greeted with an up-close view of Isabela’s ass.

“Maker, Isabela! Haven’t we talked about you purposefully dropping things?”

“But it works, doesn’t it? I get more tips than the rest of you combined.”

“Isabela, that’s mean! I’m sure Hawke gets lots of tips.”

Ah, Merrill. She is truly the epitome of innocence and sweetness. Sometimes she tucks a holly sprig behind her ear or in one of her ponytails while she works. Despite her somewhat off-putting (at first) facial tattoos, she’s a favorite with the customers. She’s so happy that everyone around her can’t help but feel happy too. 

“Thank you, Merrill, for your support,” I said in a fake stern tone, giving Isabela a pointed look. She just raises an eyebrow, obviously not impressed. I drop the act. “But seriously, Isabela, you can’t act like this in a family restaurant.”

“Oh, piss. It’s not like I’m not wearing underwear.”

“Isabela!”

“What? It’s true. I could be a lot worse. I could not wear underwear, and wear a short, tight skirt, and high heels, an- Andraste’s tits, that smells divine!”

Right on cue, Bethy walks out with platters of food, followed by Anders. Isabela’s right, that shit smells like heaven. Always does.

And, of course, this wouldn’t be a true employee breakfast without Isabela trying to sneak a taste of the food before anyone else. She moves casually and languidly, slipping an arm around Bethany’s shoulders,and quick as a flash, scooping up some whipped cream and popping it into her mouth. .

“Stop it! You’ll get some soon enough. Wait til we get to the table.” Bethany got her scolding voice from Mom. Whenever I try it, I sound like I’m talking to a dog. Isabela ‘hmmphs’ but does as Bethany says, taking a seat, unwrapping her utensils and pushing the napkin to the side. We can’t get her to put it on her lap like she’s supposed to, but really, it’s not our place to criticize. Our table manners aren’t much better.

As soon as the plates hit the table we dig in. Bethy’s cooking is just that good. Anyway, we have to eat quickly if we want to be ready by opening time. So we literally inhale our food, and breakfast is finished and cleaned up in a whirlwind of witty banter. I reset our table while Anders and Bethany head back to the kitchen; Merrill heads to the front to open and greet the morning rush. 

“You guys ready?” I call, and hear a resounding ‘Ready!’ from the crew. I flick the sign to ‘open’, tie on my apron, and ready myself for another busy day in Lothering’s finest (and only) diner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fenris time??

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, CAROLINE, WOULD LIKE TO FORMALLY APOLOGIZE FOR THIS TAKING SO LONG 
> 
> both noeru and i have had hella school but its finally done and we are so happy with it, and we hope you are too!
> 
> as usual, you can find me on tumblr @mafereth and noeru @ridetheironbull

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but this diner runs like clockwork. Even though we’ve only been working together a few months, it feels like we’ve known each other our whole lives. I can say the same for the customers, too. I grew up here, after all, and I know everyone. There’s a distinct sort of laziness to Lothering’s people - not in a lethargic way (Lothering’s people are the most hardworking you’ll ever find) - but in an easygoing way. Nobody wastes time on formalities; everyone is happy to be where they are. It’s a warm, welcoming place, and everyone you meet soon becomes family.

That’s partially why Isabela’s here. She’s on parole and the city sent her here because “our friendly, open atmosphere would help her adjust her attitude.” Merrill thought this place would be a good spot to start over after she left her family. Anders just wanted a quieter life. And me? I’ve always been here. Always will. 

“Garrett Suzanne Hawke! Stop daydreaming and pay attention to me.” Isabela’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. 

“Huhwhu-?” I jerk my head off my fist and quickly wipe my drool on my pants. Smooth, Garrett.

“Sweet thing, I’ve only been saying your name for the five minutes.” She bumps me out of the way with her hip. “It’s my turn to hostess.” 

Right. Must be noon already. 

“‘S not even my real middle name” I grumble, smoothing down my shirt. I grab my apron and tie it on, and glance out the window only to see - you guessed it - rain. 

It was sprinkling earlier today, but now it’s downright torrential. Nobody’s gonna be out in this weather. “Hey guys! Looks like a light shift today!” I called to the main dining room.

That’s the one downside to living in Lothering. Don’t get much business during a storm...which is always.

While grabbing my pad and pen from the back, I hear the door creak open over the hum of conversation of the few occupied tables. 

“Aww, did someone have a bad day?” I can hear Isabela’s sultry voice from here.

Oh Maker. My ‘Isabela-is-flirting-please-stop-this-before-it-transcends-PG13’ meter is going off. She’s talking to someone - not a regular, I realize - and Andraste, does he looks like someone pissed in his Cheerios. 

Before I get to the hostess station, the stranger gives a curt “No.” I slide in and wrap my arm around Isabela’s shoulders, and with a quick “please don’t do this” whisper into her ear, I turn to the stranger.

The first thing I notice is his striking white hair. And then his gorgeous, olive skin, and the intricate facial tattoos that make his sharp, angular features stand out even more. His beautiful green eyes stare back at me from under his dark brows.

Well, shit. 

He’s hot. 

I mean, the facial tattoos are unusual - different from Merrill’s - but in a beautiful, ethereal way. I'm not exaggerating when I say they seem to glow.

Before I make a fool out of myself in front of possibly the single most attractive man I’ve ever seen, I pull out a save. Like a fucking champion.

“We’ve got a table set over here, if you’ll just follow me.” 

He grunts affirmatively. 

I follow the usual scripted intro (mostly because I’m afraid that I’ll stutter if I try to say anything else), “Hi, I’m Garrett, and I’ll be your server today. Here’s your menu; can I get you anything to drink?” et cetera, et cetera, blah blah blah.

“Coffee,” he growls, in a rich, deep voice with an edge like ice. Wow, but isn’t he the strong, silent type? 

Well, might as well go for it. I’m going to....(dramatic music, please) start a conversation.

“So…” I stop to clear my throat. Off to a great start, as usual. “I haven’t seen you here before. You new in town?”

“Tourist.” 

Again with the one-word answers. Andraste, it’s like he’s trying to be difficult. 

“Oh, really? We don’t normally get tourists around here, wha-” He shoots me a sharp glare and stops me in my tracks. Ok, maybe this isn’t working after all. I give him an awkward smile and leave to get his coffee, hopefully with some of my dignity intact.

The rest of the day is pretty quiet, similar to hot angry dude. I have a few more good tries at getting him to either talk or smile, but, needless to say, I fail. I’m beginning to think getting a wall to talk would be easier.

He sticks around for an hour, maybe two, ordering nothing but a second coffee. I caught him looking outside every time I checked on him. He seemed to be scanning the gray world outside the window, looking for something that isn’t there.

It’s not even 24 hours before we see the guy again. Honestly, it was like he never left. He sets up shop in the same table as yesterday, sitting alone, brooding like he’s training for a competition, glaring at the constant drizzle and nursing a coffee. 

The next day he shows up once more, except this time he brings a book. I can’t even tell what it is, because he never picks it up from where it’s resting on the table. I don’t think he turned a single page.

After about a week of this, I finally work up the courage to talk to him. Specifically, to ask him a question that’s been bothering me since day one. So I walk over, coffee in hand.

“You’re not actually a tourist, are you?”

He slowly turns his head, and fixes me with his angry eyes. His beautiful, green eyes. (Well, I mean, they’re still pretty angry, but very attractive.)

I don’t know if I should keep trying, because I might just make him angrier, but at this point it’s go big or go home. And the Hawkes always go big. 

I swallow hard and steel myself. If I drop the coffee while trying to talk to Hot Angry Guy, Isabela will never let me live it down.

But before I can say another word, he stops me.

“Is this what all small towns are like? Everyone always wanting to know everything about everyone?” God, his voice is like chocolate on silk sheets. Well. I mean ,that would be kind of a mess, but you get the idea. Luxurious. That’s the word I’m going for. I think. 

“Well, you’ve been here every day for a week straight, and you only seem to get angrier every time you walk through the doors. I dunno, I just get the vibe that you’re on edge all the time. Like you’re looking for something, but don’t really want to find it.” 

I see a flash of surprise in his eyes before his face returns to his signature glare. 

So he does have other emotions. I should never have doubted him.

"Do you nag all your patrons like this? I was under the impression that this was an upstanding family restaurant."

I suppose I must have looked a bit shocked and hurt, because his eyes immediately drop. This time, when he speaks, he’s quieter and avoids looking me directly in the eye.

"I- I am sorry. That was uncalled for." He moves his hands, as if to smooth out wrinkles that he's created in the environment (which there’s really no need for. I've had customers - full-on, grown adults - throw temper tantrums. Like, screaming. On the floor. The dangers of working in hospitality, I tell you.) "I am… not used to people asking more than they are required." 

Has no one ever actually asked about his wellbeing? Maker. I look more closely at him - his entire body radiates tension, and his hands are wringing nervously. Something must have messed him up, big-time. Mama-Garrett mode: activated.

I slide into the other side of his booth and push the refilled coffee towards his clasped hands. He jumps slightly, like he's afraid I might strike him. I look at his face (or where his face would be if he wasn't staring at his hands) and soften my expression. I really feel for this guy. Maybe my ‘soothing presence’ (or whatever Merrill’s words were) will calm him.

I had a yoga teacher once, a batty old lady who had this theory that people's auras react to other's emotions. I don’t know if I believe that, and honestly I was never any good at yoga, but you don't get far in customer service without being able to read people. I'm not the best at comforting people, but hell, I have a sparkling personality and a can-do attitude, and that’s what counts.

Speaking softer this time, I pick my words carefully as to not startle (or upset) him. He's cautious, but not in the way a deer is - he reminds me more of a big cat who's cornered and ready to lash out.

"Look, I'm not sure why you're so on edge, and you're obviously not from around here, but if you're in any sort of trouble, but myself or any other staff members would be glad to help." Oh Maker, it sounds like I think he's a criminal or something. Great job, Garrett, make him dislike you even more. "And since you don't seem to have much else going on, this place is as good as any to get some work done. We've got free wifi, a bar, a jukebox (which only plays, like, five songs, but he doesn’t need to know that), and waffles!" I flash a Charming Hawke Smile©, as created and perfected by dear old dad.

He looks up slowly. I can tell he's not sure what to make of me, but I see the beginnings of a shy smile appear on his face. 

"I- Thank you. Really.” He glances back down at the table. “I am truly sorry if I've caused any trouble."

 

I quickly move to reassure him, “Hey, don’t worry about it. You’re no trouble at all.” I slip out of the booth, and as I make to walk away from the table I quickly double tap the edge with my fingers to get his attention, suppressing a wince as I remember how jumpy the guy is.

"Coffee's on the house."


End file.
